


The Oathsinger Saga - Book One: Dovahkiin

by swanofmischief



Series: The Oathsinger Saga [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-03-20 00:50:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3630486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swanofmischief/pseuds/swanofmischief
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Dovahkiin, Dragonborn. A name I never wanted, never asked for. A burden I will have to bear, a gift I will have to make use of. </p>
<p>I am Svana Oathsinger, Dragonborn. And this is where my tale begins."</p>
<p>A story following the adventures and exploits of the Dragonborn as she arrives in Skyrim, and brings together an unlikely Sisterhood of warriors to help defeat an ancient evil threatening not only the land of the Nords, but all of Nirn, and maybe even realms beyond.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Oathsinger Saga - Book One: Dovahkiin

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, before we get into it, I want to explain where I'm going with this series, and some of the ways it's a little unusual:
> 
> The story will follow our hero and Dragonborn through her life and adventures, of course, and the people she meets. The plot will center on a group of OC's, who are all characters I've spent time playing as in Skyrim, as they join the Dragonborn on her journey, for various personal reasons. As such, the story will veer off game canon in various places and have it's own tangents, but this "book" will mostly follow the main questline. Book two will follow the Civil War, and any after will be their own stories.*
> 
> This Dragonborn's original motivation is to become a bard, and I am still secretly a 13 year old girl deep down inside, so there will be a few "songfic" moments. I will only pick songs that are Lore friendly, and tweak any lyrics that are not. I will link to any songs in the pre-chapter notes, but I don't have many songs planned, so it shouldn't be something I get carried away with. 
> 
> I also won't make promises about when I'll update, or estimate the frequency of updates. My life is very busy lately, and my top priority is my other in-progress fanfiction, 'Fresh Hell.' But I will update this as often as I can.
> 
> *I only have the base game, a ton of mods, and Hearthfire, so, for now, I have no plans to explore either Dawnguard or Dragonborn quests in this particular series. However, that may change later.
> 
> Okay, enough of my rambling. Let's begin...

The first thing she acknowledged was the cold, stinging her exposed face and arms. The cold was like nothing else in all of Nirn. The second was the noise around her. Somewhere overhead, a raven cawed loudly. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf bayed its mournful song. Somewhere very close, a wooden cart creaked and groaned, a soldier coughed, and the hooves of horses clattered over poorly paved roadways. She lurched as the cart she was in hit a pothole in the road, and, finally, her eyes blinked open into white sunlight.

Blearily, she lifted her head, wincing at the way it was throbbing in pain. She was in the back of a wooden cart, and there was another a few feet ahead, filled with Nords in blue and silver armor. Riding ahead of them was a regal Imperial man in Legionnaire armor. In fact, there were quite a few Legionnaires around the procession, she realized. They were riding through a frosted forest. Hills and mountains rose to either side of them, and the sky was a pale silver, from which light flurries of snow spiraled.

“Hey, you. You’re finally awake.” A strong, yet gentle voice startled the young woman, and she turned to look at the speaker, a loose strand of hair falling into her face. Across from her was a blonde Nord man, wearing the same armor as the others, and looking at her with sympathy and concern. “You were trying to cross the border, right?” Her tongue felt heavy as iron in her mouth, and so she merely nodded her response. The man nodded and sighed.

“Walked right into that Imperial ambush. Same as us, and that thief over there.” He jerked his head slightly to indicate another man, this one brunette and in rags, and the Nord woman realized their hands were all bound. The man scowled in return.

“Damn you Stormcloaks,” He spat. The woman’s eyes widened, and she inhaled sharply through her nose, looking at the armored Nord warily. “Skyrim was fine until you came along! Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn’t been looking for you, I’d have stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell.” The man in rags looked to the female Nord.

“You there. You and me, we shouldn’t be here. It’s these Stormcloaks the Empire wants,” he said seriously. The blonde man rolled his eyes.

“We’re all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief,” he said.

“Shut up back there!” The man driving the cart snapped, tired of the bantering. The two fell silent as the woman swallowed her saliva, which stung her parched throat. She looked around desperately, wondering if she could make it throwing herself off the side of the cart.

“What’s _his_ problem?” The horse thief finally grumbled, nodding to the other man in the cart. The woman followed his gaze and gave the Stormcloak beside her a curious glance. His mouth was wrapped tightly with linen, and his armor was much nicer than that of the blonde who had greeted her waking.

“Watch your tongue,” said blonde snapped. “You’re speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King.” The woman’s blood ran cold, and her curious expression shifted to one of disgust. She shifted instinctively away from the man. Her father had wanted her to come to Skyrim for the express purpose of fighting against Ulfric Stormcloak and his little rebellion, and while that was not the reason she eventually decided to cross the border from Cyrodiil, it was a strange twist of fate that she should be imprisoned at his side.

“Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm?” The horse thief suddenly sounded both awed and horrified. “You’re the leader of the rebellion. If they’ve captured you- oh, Gods! Where are they taking us?” His voice rose in fear, and the soldier riding behind them glared.

“I don’t know where we’re going,” the blonde Nord interrupted, his tone indicating that the other man should quiet down. “But Sovngarde awaits.” The woman felt her heart drop, but she still didn’t feel like she would be able to speak and protest yet. Perhaps the Imperials would allow her to explain after they reached their destination...

“No! This can’t be happening!” The thief was panicking now. “This isn’t happening!”

“Hey,” the Stormcloak spoke as soothingly as he could, his voice firm to get the thief’s attention. “What village are you from, horse thief?”

“What do you care?” came the acidic response.

“A Nord’s last thoughts should be of home,” the Stormcloak replied, but he looked at the woman when he said it. She turned her gaze away sharply, but his words, oddly comforting, did touch something within her, and she recalled her home. Bravil, Cyrodiil.

The city was squalid, miserable, and the Skooma flowed as freely as the mead. It stank, and the people there were always hungry, always fighting to survive from day to day. No one bothered with it after the desecration of the Lucky Old Lady, and the revolting revelation that the remains of the Dark Brotherhood’s matron and her doomed children were housed beneath it. They had disappeared soon after, but no one forgot, and the city was looked on with horror and suspicion.

A thieves’ ring, not related to the Guild, had recently cropped up there as well, with about half a dozen agents working in the shadows and horribly ruining the economy by taking from shops and selling to fences or passing merchants. And as such, most traffic to Bravil ceased, with most people too afraid of their purses being slit, as well as their throats. The city had gone completely to Oblivion, and was likely the worst place to live in all of Cyrodiil, if not Tamriel.

She missed it terribly. At least there, things had been simpler, less vast and unpredictable. Though, with the recent assassination of the Emperor and his cousin, the entire province had been thrown into uncertainty. No wonder, she realized, the border to Skyrim had been so heavily guarded. It _was_ the location of both murders.

The horse thief made a reply and the soldiers shouted to one another, but she was no longer listening, instead watching the stone walls of a fortress-like settlement grow steadily closer. They passed through the gates and she could see they had entered a town, strongly walled with proud but crude towers rising over the simple homes.

“Look at him,” the blonde Stormcloak spat, drawing the woman’s attention at last. “General Tullius, the military governor.” He was glaring over his shoulder at the Imperial who had led their procession into town. He was still mounted, and speaking to a regal looking Altmer woman, also on a horse.

“And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn elves. I bet they had something to do with this.” The hatred in his voice surprised the female Nord, though it shouldn’t have. She, too, loathed the Thalmor, even being too young to really know how toxic their influence was, but she was still caught off guard by the the sheer abhoration in the Stormcloak’s tone. He spit out of the cart at them, but then took the time to look around, and a spark of recognition lit his eyes.

“This is Helgen,” he muttered, though no one was listening to him. The woman’s eyes were still fixed on the Elf and Imperial, and the thief was on the verge of hyperventilating. The Stormcloak continued musing to himself, about people he knew here, and when her gaze turned back, the woman noticed his leg trembling. She had the grace to look away, spotting a boy sitting on his porch with his parents.

“Who are they, Daddy?” He pointed at the carts and looked to his father. “Where are they going?”

“You need to go inside, little cub,” the man replied gently, watching the carts with ill ease as they rode past.  The woman turned her head to watch them talk.

“Why? I wanna watch the soldiers!”

“Inside the house, now.” The boy got to his feet reluctantly and headed for the door.

“Yes, Papa.”

The horses were called to halt, and the carts were parked by the nearest wall. The woman felt her stomach knot worriedly, but now she would have the chance to explain. If all else failed, she would make her father proud and claim she had arrived to fight for the Legion.

“Why are we stopping?” whimpered the horse thief. A harsh voice called for the prisoners to be unloaded from the carts.

“Why do you think?” The Stormcloak replied dryly. “End of the line.” He and Ulfric got to their feet. “Let’s go. Shouldn’t keep the Gods waiting for us.” The woman noticed the tremor in his fingers as she stood up, but once more turned her gaze. Ulfric hopped from the cart, but the thief was frozen on his feet.

“No! Wait! We’re not rebels!” he was shouting, looking at the woman frantically for her support.

“Face your death with some courage, thief,” the Stormcloak said, giving the man a small shove and coaxing him off the cart. He and the woman hopped down side by side, and she felt his arm brush against her’s. She scowled slightly and took a half step away. She was most certainly _not_ a rebel, and didn’t want him feeling any sense of camaraderie between them.

“You’ve got to tell them we weren’t with you! This is a mistake!” The thief was still screaming. The woman agreed, but she was not about to appear the coward, even if her heart was fluttering like a bird in a trap. A woman in the armor of a Captain, short even for an Imperial, stood beside a young Nord, who looked only a few years older than the female prisoner. The Captain scowled fiercely at the collection of prisoners and spoke harshly.

“Step to the block when we call your name, one at a time!” The female Nord looked in horror to her left, and through the other group of rebels could see a priestess and a man with a massive axe. Her blood again ran cold and her breath became short with fear. She would have to talk her way out of this, and quickly.

“Empire loves their damn lists,” she half heard the blonde Stormcloak growl.

“Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm,” the young soldier announced seriously, and the leader of the Rebellion stepped forward, glaring furiously, and then walked towards the block.

“It’s been an honor, Jarl Ulfric,” the Stormcloak said, softly, then jerked his head up proudly and walked forward as his name- Ralof of Riverwood- was called out. _Ralof_. The woman watched him go, and wondered if she would remember his name.

“Lokir of Rorikstead.”

“No!” The thief shouted, his hysteria peaking. “I’m not a rebel! You can’t do this!” He took off sprinting for the gate. For a mad second, the woman almost went running with him, but she clenched her teeth and kept her feet planted in place.

“Halt!” the Imperial captain ordered, but the thief was relentless.

“You’re not going to kill me!”

“Archers!” screamed the Captain, and Lokir was felled by a single arrow, well placed between his shoulder blades. She turned back to the prisoners, who were all looking at one another in shock. “Anyone else feel like running?” There was a beat, and then the young soldier went back to his list. He frowned, and pointed his quill at the Nord woman.

“Wait... you there. Step forward.” She lifted her chin and walked forward, stopping just a few feet from him and the Captain. “Who are you?”

This close, she could see herself in the Captain’s gleaming armor. Her hair was light auburn, and swept across her forehead. The rest was pulled back into a tight but messy bun that rested on the nape of her neck. Her wide eyes were a pale shade of green, and a thick stripe of black warpaint was streaked across them, the perfect width to cloak any skin not hidden by a hood and shroud. Her full lips were painted dark, and she had extra black make up rimming her eyes. Her features were soft, apart from her sharp nose, and tanned from the Cyrodiil sun. The soldiers had taken her weapons and effects, but she wore simple leather armor, bracers, and boots, and around her left wrist was a thin silver band inlaid with three sapphires- a gift from her late grandmother.

“Svana Oathsinger,” she replied, pleased with how strong her voice sounded. She looked to the Captain, but there was no recognition of her name. “Daughter of Tollak Oathsinger and Kelda Whiteriver,” she added. None of the soldiers reacted, and she felt a sinking feeling as she realized that none of them had served with her parents in the Great War. Or, if they had, they did not recall. Svana was about to explain herself, when the young soldier took a deep breath and spoke again.

“What should we do, Captain? She’s not on the list.”

“That’s because-”

“Forget the list,” the Captain interrupted sharply. “She goes to the block.”

“By your orders, Captain,” the soldier replied, his tone reluctant.

“Now, wait a second!” Svana protested, her voice breaking from her lack of hydration. “I’m not with these Stormcloaks! I deserve to be able to explain myself!”

Two soldiers grabbed her arms and guided her towards the block, and she struggled against them. “No, just listen to me! I’m here to-” A gag was shoved past her teeth, muffling her protests. She looked around frantically, and her gaze landed on General Tullius, as he strode up to Ulfric proudly.

“Ulfric Stormcloak.” His tone was almost mocking. “Some here in Helgen call you a hero, but a hero doesn’t use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp the throne. You started this war, flung Skyrim into chaos. And now, the Empire is going to put you down, and restore the peace.”

A strange, fearsome sound echoed suddenly in the distance, and Imperial, Stormcloak, and civilian alike looked to the sky in confusion. It was a sound like thunder, and yet also like a scream. It was filled with fury, with wrath. Svana could have sworn she felt it in her bones, but it was too distant for that. After a tense moment of silence, the man who had read the list spoke.

“What was that?”

“It’s nothing,” General Tullis said quickly. “Carry on.”

“Yes, General Tullius!” The Captain with the gleaming armor stepped forward boldly and turned to the priestess. “Give them their last rites.” Svana felt sick. She struggled against the soldiers holding her arms and tried desperately to look for any kind of escape. The priestess began to recite.

“For the love of Talos!” One of the Stormcloaks stomped forward, and the archers began to reach for their bows. “Shut up, and let’s get this over with.”

“A-as you wish,” the priestess replied, stepping back nervously. No one moved for a moment.

“Come on! I haven’t got all morning.” The rebel challenged. Svana watched him closely, amazed by his bravery. He knelt before the block on his own, and glared up at the Captain, who scowled back. “My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials. Can you say the same?”

The Captain’s foot came down on the man’s back harder than it really needed to, and Svana could hear the air get knocked out of him as his neck was put on display. The headsman’s axe lifted in what seemed like slow motion, catching the light in a single glint, and then dropped onto the Stormcloak’s neck. The rebel man’s head dropped to the earth.

One of the female rebels shrieked. “You Imperial bastards!” she sobbed out.

“Justice!” one of the gathered civilians replied proudly.

“Death to the Stormcloaks!” someone else shouted.

“As fearless in death as he was in life,” Ralof murmured. Svana looked to him, and felt a stab of sympathy, in spite of herself.

“Next, Svana Oathsinger.” The Captain pointed directly at Svana, and Ralof gave her a nod. Svana’s heart dropped like a stone, but suddenly, that awful screech came again, louder this time. It sounded like the void itself was screaming.

“There it is again! Did you hear that?” The young soldier with the list looked obviously spooked, and everyone else was warily casting their eyes to the clouds.

“I said: Next. Prisoner,” the Captain repeated sharply, kicking the body of the Stormcloak out of the way. The soldiers holding Svana let her go, and gave her a push forward.

“To the block, Oathsinger,” the list reader said apologetically. “Nice and easy.” Svana took a deep breath as her gag was released, and she walked slowly but evenly to the block.

_Lady Nocturnal_ , she prayed, looking up at the sky. _Please, please save me. Lend me your luck. I know I have left your service, but I remain your humble child. Do not let me die here._

Her heart was racing as she stood before the headsman, whose cold eyes regarded her from the holes in his mask. The Captain grabbed her roughly, and shoved Svana to her knees. The Nord winced, and then laid her head on the block. It was slick with blood, and she could feel it, still hot, on the side of her throat. She looked into the distance, admiring the mountains and pale sky, imagining her home, and pleading wordlessly to her Daedric guardian.

Then, Svana’s head lifted an inch as a dark shape moved through the sky, and her brow furrowed. The headsman’s axe lifted, and the massive black shape appeared again, roaring into the heavens.

“What in Oblivion is that?!” Someone screamed.

“Sentries? What do you see?” shouted the Captain.

“It’s in the town!” came the reply.

“DRAGON!” A townswoman shrieked, as the massive black creature landed on the nearest tower.

“Guards! get the Townsfolk to safety!” screamed the Captain.

Pinpoints of glowing crimson served as the Dragon’s eyes, and he looked at Svana, their gazes meeting. Something passed between them, but she could not comprehend what. And then he roared, and the sky went dark orange, heavy clouds forming and swirling about. The headsman stumbled to the side, dropping his axe. And then the fiery comets began to rain from the heavens.

_Lady Nocturnal, this is NOT WHAT I MEANT!_

The dragon shouted again, and the force of his voice knocked Svana off the block, her head hitting the cobblestones, hard. She cried out, her vision going black for a moment, and it remained blurry when she opened her eyes.

“Hey! Oathsinger!” Ralof was calling, and Svana lifted her head. Hands grabbed her, pulling her to her feet. Ralof was holding a dagger, and had unbound his hands. “Get up! The Gods won’t give us another chance. This way!” He took off running for a tower, and Svana shook her head to clear it from the haze and ringing in her ears, and hurried after him. They raced into the doorway, and the door was shut behind them. Several wounded Stormcloaks leaned against the walls, and one had collapsed in her own blood, breathing shallow.

Ralof spoke to his leader as he cut the binds on Ulfric’s hands, and then on everyone else. “Jarl Ulfric, what is that thing? Could the legends be true?”

“Legends don’t burn down villages,” Ulfric replied, ripping the linen gags off his face. There was another loud roar, and the tower shook precariously. Svana, still bound, stumbled and barely caught her balance. “We need to get out of here! Now!” The Stormcloaks snapped to attention, and Ralof grabbed Svana’s elbow, pulling her to the stairs.

“Up here, quickly!” They ran up the steps, Svana trusting these rebels in spite of everything she’d been told and believed about them. She and Ralof reached the top of the steps just as the wall burst inwards. She nearly fell backwards, but Ralof caught her and they found themselves staring into the red, cruel eyes of the dragon. A rush of fire suddenly filled the tower, and Svana and Ralof both instinctively crouched and turned away, the heat searing their backs, but not harming them. Svana turned and watched the massive monster fly off to terrorize the rest of Helgen.

“Are you okay?” Ralof was asking, and Svana nodded without even realizing what he said. He patted her shoulder and ran to the hole in the wall, before waving her over. Svana moved to his side and looked out as he pointed. “See that inn over there? Do you think you could make the jump?”

“In my sleep,” Svana replied with a small, humorless smile. She did this sort of thing all the time back in Bravil; leaping from rooftops was as easy to her as breathing.

“Then jump through the roof and keep going. We’ll follow when we can!” Ralof raced off down the stairs, and Svana heard the door open.

“Wait, my hands- Damn it.” She took a breath, and backed up, bracing herself, before running forward and leaping over to the inn. It was farther than she expected, and her ankle rolled as she landed, drawing a shout of pain from her. “Damn it, damn it...” She found it was superficial, just pain rather than injury, and so she dropped through a hole in the floor and peered out a gap in the first story wall.

The list reader was there with his sword drawn, guarding a civilian and a slightly dazed soldier. There was a boy in the road bent over a man and the list reader was shouting to him. As Svana watched, the dragon landed, mere feet from the child. The list reader grabbed the boy and yanked him behind a pile of debris just as the monster exhaled another gust of flame. Svana waited until the dragon flew off, and then took off at a sprint, taking cover next to the child, who was obviously shaken.

“Pretty exciting, isn’t it?” Svana panted, and the boy looked startled. She winked, but the list reader noticed her.

“Still alive, Oathsinger? Stay close to me if you want to stay that way.” He was obviously trying to sound impressive, but his voice shook. He charged the boy to the others, and then gestured to Svana and took off at a run. She took a breath and rushed after him, focusing solely on surviving. She could think about all of this later, but right now she needed to escape.

The list reader and Svana sprinted along, and then the man looked up, skidded to a halt, and pushed Svana back against the city wall, pressing himself against it beside her. The dragon landed just above them, his leathery wing nearly touching her cheek as he shouted his fury and fire. Svana’s heart felt like it had stopped, and she held her breath until the dragon once again took to the air. She and the soldier looked at one another, and then he led her on, through the remains of a house, and towards the gates, where archers and mages were firing desperately at the dragon. General Tullius was with them, looking frazzled and a little disheveled.

“Into the keep, soldier,” he told the list reader as they approached, and gave him a shove to keep running. “We’re leaving!” The young Nord nodded obediently, and ushered Svana along, pulling her under an overpass.

“It’s you and me, Oathsinger. We need to get into that keep there, and then we can plan our escape,” he explained. Svana merely nodded, confused as to why he was looking out for her, when moments ago he was about to witness her execution. They headed towards the doors, side by side, when suddenly Ralof ran into the courtyard in front of the keep, wielding a bloodied axe he must have found, a second on his hip.

“Ralof! Out of the way, you damned traitor,” growled the soldier. Ralof turned and scowled at him, pointing the dagger in his left hand at the list reader.

“We’re escaping, Hadvar,” Ralof replied, nodding to Svana. “You can’t stop us.” Hadvar, the list reader, looked at Svana, who shook her head.

“I’m not really sure I’m part of any ‘we,’” she replied, looking between the men. The tension was palpable. Before any of them could speak further, the dragon landed on the wall nearby, it’s fangs gleaming as it hunched and focused its eyes on the three Nords in the courtyard. Svana felt the blood drain from her face, and with her bound hands, grabbed the mens’ wrists and pulled them towards the keep. “RUN!”

Fire chased their footsteps as the three of them shoved open one of the doors, and slammed it shut behind them, safe, for now.

 

 


End file.
